The dreamt landscape of The Ayres provokes a little fear Such as that felt by dogs for their masters Croft nearby, long gone Reason for planting this copse of trees is unclear Unclear Held shot Static camera This allows the imagination to enter What will occur here? Allow the characters to enter separately please The copse, a stage Let them act out what this place implies Woman, mid thirties, trouser suit, dark blue Small case which she places carefully down, and then picks up again Every ten steps she does this as if carrying something very heavy Sunlight Herself at the edge of clouds Shadows, clean shadows, cloud shadows Seen now from further away Wide screen Slow progress of her steps towards the trees The trees barely move in the wind The geography of the sky mapped out on the land We reflect Who wishes to read it? Cut to close-up of the case covered in stickers Hotels in France, Germany, America Case edged in black Camera closer still Camera closer still Something inside Some history, some kind of history A scratching noise Scratching noise Close up of her face Looks directly into the camera Descend into slow motion as she closes her eyes Cut to darkness The case interior Scratch Scratch Scratch Scratch History Why bring history here? Last thing that happened here was a glacier Then the copse, nothing else This place does not encourage event other than nature, which it could not prevent It would have done if it could have done Why bring history here? Rainfall Second character emerges from the dunes Avoids the remains of a fire Broken bottle glass Perhaps he is part of the rain Sudden grey eyes, shifting How does the rain appear? He appears middle aged, black suit, pained Runs a hand through the hair, overlong, un-businesslike A tattoo on the back of the left hand Cassiopeia, the constellation, picked out in tiny blue dots What does he represent? What coalesced within him The outward signs indicate purpose And unease He is ours to guess upon Cut to shot amongst trees Sound of breath Sighs Low notes Perhaps a cello Movements at the boundary Not the characters so far introduced Others are here We are not close enough to identify Unfocused Show the faces you have Please show the faces you have No, never mind Cut to darkness Cut to a shot of the copse Sky altered Darker, darker Perhaps we have woken up something Plane overhead, light aircraft A distracting narrative Another character We see only his back He holds a book How long do we see him? He holds a book What book? Show your face Show your face I can't make them Why can't I make them? They are not my characters These are not my characters These are not my characters These are not my characters They are not mine They are not mine The coalesced figures at the edge of the frame darting now Footfall on dead ground They are barely here As I am barely here As I am barely in this place Reveal the book, the fiction Reveal the fiction Holds it to his face Turns to camera Airplane noises return Man disappears Book becomes transparent Layered words drift through the frame Reappear Distant now Becoming several movements obscured by text Scene fades A few words stay Unfocused Unwelcome Unfocused Unwelcome Unfocused Unwelcome Unfocused Unwelcome

No one turned up for the first show, just the tide. And she only wanted to see the clowns. She pushed around the edges of the ring when they came out, hissing her approval. And she sloped of afterwards. I said 'next time bring some paying customers with you'. A storm came in the following day. It felt like the season was dead before it had got going. I knew what the weather would do. The families would stay in their guesthouses playing Ludo. Fathers in the lounge bar moaning at the tariffs, moaning at the cold as the horse trams carried on without custom. And the municipal award winning brass band knocks out Elgar to rows of empty seats down at the sea terminal. Ferry delayed, reason given... apathy. And we had no expectations of the day. But the tide brought in a crowd. And what a crowd. 65 lost men. The drowned, long dead. Ushered into their seats by the dove grey sea. I sent out the dwarves to get what they could by way of admission fee. They did alright. Old coins, briny watches, a medal or two, documents on oil skin, weathered pictures. Enough. So we gave them a show. I can't say they were the warmest of audiences. But we've had worse. The sea took them away afterwards. I gave her a postcard by way of thanks. It was a portrait of herself. Storm Scene, Douglas Promenade, 1910. 'Ah, how young I look' she said, 'how beautiful'. 'I'll bring more tomorrow' she said. 'They like clowns too'. So we get a different audience in here these days. The living tend to stay away. They're fussy about what they sit next to. But who cares. Full house is full house.